


Up Late and Drinking

by occult2000



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Charles is a band dad that cleans up after his stupid band children, Drabble, Drunken Kissing, Fluff and Angst, Hidden Relationship, Idiots in Love, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nathan's awkward and Pickles is a little bit too forward, trans pickles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 01:42:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15183962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/occult2000/pseuds/occult2000
Summary: Pickles and Nathan spend the night together, alone, in the recording room at Mordhaus to work on Dethklok's latest album. Of course, as usual, they're drunk and no work is done.





	Up Late and Drinking

**Author's Note:**

> F.Y.I; I don't write too often and my writing is a little.. lacking so if it seems short/a lot of words repeat it's because I'm a big fat dumbass. 
> 
> Sidenote: This fic is slightly based on the headcanon/idea that Nathan and Pickles were in a relationship prior to Dethklok's major fame and split it off/kept it very low to keep the band's image as 'manly' as possible and to avoid scandal.

Nathan glanced at the time. Almost midnight. God, they really needed to get some work done; or else Charles would have their asses on silver platters. 

Pickles was stretched over the recording panel, tapping an unknown beat with his fingers and chewing his tongue, while Nathan leaned back in his chair, his eyes closed, trying to rhyme something with 'bloodlust'. Among them were countless empty bottles of beer and a few bags of half-finished Doritos. The two were drunk, but compared to how they normally drank, the amount of alcohol was less than nothing. It was quiet; so quiet that they could both hear each other's breathing. The entire recording room was silent, save for the slight hum of electrical equipment and the sound of Pickles' fingers against the wood panel. It was foggily dark, and the glass separating the panel from the recording room reflected their figures in strange, warped ways. 

After a few moments of deafening silence, Nathan sat up straight, his eyes blinking open in a flash of inspiration. He grabbed his notebook faster than Pickles could really process and started to scribble something down among crude dick doodles and random phrases; words that were stuck there as possible lyrics.  
Watching him with slight interest, Pickles turned in his seat and scooted close to him, so close that he could smell Nathan's cologne, which was musky and reminded him of the woods. Of course, it was poignantly 'manly', just like everything Nathan did, owned, or said. Nathan noticed their closeness and bit his tongue, coughing softly and feeling heat flush across his face, either from the alcohol, or Pickles' hand straying so close to his own. Maybe it was both. 

A lock of black hair fell into his face, and he pushed it back behind his ear, his face suddenly morphing from its rest into a look of frustration. Angry, he slammed his notebook back down and shoved his hand into his temple, because he had forgotten what it was he was going to write down. And he was pretty fucking sure that they were some brutal lyrics, too.  
"Fuck," he groans, simple and to-the-point. Frowning, Pickles wonders if he was responsible for Nathan losing his train of thought; and he doesn't really know if he's sorry for it, either. 

"Hey, s'okay, we'll figure it out." Pickles reassures, patting Nathan on the shoulder and rolling back to his spot, his eyes spanning over the panel of brightly lit buttons and switches for a moment, his hands straying on a button that was red and flashing like its life depended on it. "Oh fuck," he mumbles, squinting at the label on the button. His drunken brain flashes through foggy memories of being half-assed trained on how to record using the countless controls, and he realizes that he might have maybe possibly erased the recordings from earlier in the day. Which meant they had lost most of Skwisgaar's solo and a bit of his own drumming. 

Nathan still had his head in his hands, but seemed calm, if overly-tired and buzzed. For a while, Pickles just stared at the red button; then burst into messy, drunken laughter. Surprised and a little jarred, Nathan stiffened up and stared at his friend with unfocused, surprised eyes.  
Still laughing, he takes in a few deep breaths and looks over at Nathan, gesturing to the panel. 

"You're probably gonna punch me, but I think I might've, uh.. erased today's sesh with my elbow." 

For a few seconds, Nathan looked confused, and then snorted under his breath, a smile playing on his lips as if he was trying desperately to hide it. Pretty soon, Nathan's laughing too, the alcohol muddling up his impulse and his thoughts. His laugh is throaty, but quiet, much like his normal speaking voice.  
Reaching over, he nabs a half-finished beer, and chugs it down like a dying man in a desert. 

"God damn. Really? With your elbow? All of it? Brutal." Nathan rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, still smiling, and looks over at Pickles, who also has a stupid, drunk look on his face. "What? Is there Dorito shit on my face?" 

A moment that feels like an hour passes between them, their eyes locked on each other and goofy smiles plastered on their faces. They're both rapidly and suddenly transported to the early days of Dethklok, when the would sit on a dirty couch in some fucker's garage and talk about stupid shit for hours, laughing and eventually making out like horny teenagers on prom night. 

"Nothing. I've just... missed hearin' you laugh." Pickles mutters, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. He's suddenly very aware that they've been staring at each other for an awkwardly long amount of time. Just before Pickles can start to feel bad about the comment, Nathan smiles to himself and stares at his feet. In their dull, studio lighting, he's beautiful. Radiant. The most beautiful man Pickles has ever seen. 

Using his feet to scoot a few inches closer to him, Pickles raises his hands and cups them around the singer's cheeks, pulling him down and pressing a heavy, drunken kiss to his lips. Not long after, Nathan invites him further by opening up his mouth and letting Pickles take complete charge of the intimate display. Nathan, confused about where to place his hands, eventually settles on putting one against Pickle's cheek, pulling him closer until the man is basically in his lap. Needing air, the kiss is broken, and Nathan is staring into Pickle's eyes, shocked and drunk and chocked full of endearment for the short, scrawny man who's straddling his legs.

"I fucking love you." Nathan blurts out, his eyebrows furrowed, a confused but content look graced on his features.  
Pickles snorts, before pressing a few kisses to Nathan's jaw and lower chin, gracelessly mumbling for Nathan to shut up. 

 

Early the next morning, Charles expects to find a mess, and not much else. Among the beer bottles and trash, he finds not only a mess, but Nathan and Pickles among it, laying on the floor and practically laying on top of each other. Nathan has suck marks on his neck. Pickles' shirt is missing.  
And Charles figures he really doesn't want to know why.


End file.
